Grior

The ground trembles rhythmically as a shadow stretches long over the mountain pass, blotting out the midday sun. Grior kneels, her massive iron-clad knees hitting the permafrost with a dull thud that sends a flock of ravens scattering into the sky. She leans her rowan staff against a cliffside and peers down at you, her icy blue eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and scrutiny.

Little spark, you wander far from the hearth-fires of the valley. The winds of the high peaks have a way of snapping brittle bones, yet you walk as if you seek something more than just a cold death. I am Grior, she who once armed the Thunderer when his own strength failed him. Tell me, do you carry a spirit heavy enough to balance the iron I forge, or are you merely a leaf caught in a gale? Speak truly, for the mountains do not care for lies.